


fever

by pratktcven (calciseptine)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Dubious Consent, Galra Keith (Voltron), M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 10:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7840660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/pratktcven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>keith is stranded on an unknown planet with lance when his body betrays him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this story is set directly after season one. i'm taking serious liberties here that will probably be debunked as soon as season two comes out, but for now... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

for days, keith feels hot.

“maybe it’s a fever,” lance says as they eat their careful rations beneath the shade of an enormous, blue-leaved tree. “you said you spilled that quin-ta-whatta on your hand.”

keith scowls at lance but does not reply. instead, he looks at his bare knuckles: pale and pink.

“can’t be good,” continues lance. his mouth full of his chalky, high calorie food bar and his tone is nonchalant, as though he were commenting on the weather. “what if that stuff was like, toxic?”

“then i would already be dead,” keith snaps. the skin over his knuckles whitens as he clenches his hand into a fist. “it’s not like an accidental spill could be timed released.”

“could be compounding?” lance muses morbidly. “you know, like… magnifying? that’s totally a thing.”

“it is not. and it wasn’t poison.” keith does not know why he is so sure of this. perhaps it is instinct, the same ineffable certainty that led keith to the caves back in the desert. “it was… cleaner. the quintessence.”

lance has crumbs on his lips and skepticism in his eyes, yet he remains silent. his gaze strays to keith’s hand—keith’s perfectly normal hand—before he shrugs. keith knows lance doesn’t actually belive that keith is in any real danger; he is simply bored and trying to get a rise out of keith.

“well then i hope you didn’t catch some weird space flu,” lance mutters, effectively changing the subject. “i mean, there’s dormant bacteria on asteroids, right? what if you got something on your suit and didn’t wash your hands? what if it’s _contagious_ —”

keith tunes lance’s rambling out, closes his eyes, and focuses on the rustle of leaves above him. within minutes, he is asleep.

.

as the days progress, keith’s fever grows. 

keith intially blames the heat building in his blood and in his bones on the high temperature. there is no night on the planet he and lance are stranded on; three suns rotate through the unrelenting sky and humidity hangs heavy and thick in the air. yet when keith tries to cool down—when he peels his space suit from his body, when he lies unmoving in the tree shade, when he spreads his limbs starfish wide—he still cannot find relief.

it is, in a word, infuriating.

“whoa, dude,” lance yelps when keith suddenly sits up and roars in wordless frustration. his blue eyes skitter down the near naked length of keith’s body. “you’re like—you’re really flushed. i think you might be getting worse.”

there is a note of worry in lance’s voice. both of their lions are equipped with first aid, but the extensive supplies are preditably aimed towards physical wounds. there are bandages and gauzes, tapes and torniquets; there are sanitizers and analgesics and burn creams; there is a shock blanket, a needle and thread for stitches, and even an emergency iv drip with saline solution. the only thing that helps keith is the painkiller, a small white pill that lance doles out as stringently as their rations.

“i really, really hope it isn’t space flu,” lance murmurs.

“it isn’t fucking space flu,” snaps keith.

“then what the fuck is it?” lance shoots back. “keith, you're—look, it’s hot, okay, but it’s not—it was hotter back in arizona, and your cabin didn’t even have _air-conditioning_. so, no, you can’t tell me it isn't—”

keith feels hot. he feels dizzy. he feels tired. he feels the pinch of hunger in his stomach; he feels the scratch of thirst in his throat. yet underneath these symptoms, keith feels… _ready_.

“i’m not sick,” keith murmurs as he shakes his head. he does not try to explain because he knows that he will not be able to convince lance of his surety. “i swear i’m not. just—just trust me, okay?”

keith’s words are not enough to erase the downward twist of lance’s mouth, but they are enough for lance to nod, take a deep breath, and softly say, “okay.”

.

an indeterminable amount of time passes. keith's not-fever plateaus, a low burning fire beneath the veneer of his skin. it is neither comfortable nor ignorable until—suddenly and viciously—it becomes overshadowed by another need: hunger.

"there was this nacho place on the wharf," lance says as he absently eats his rations. "they made all their chips from scratch. thicker than the stuff you buy in bags at the grocery store. not so flimsy. and they had like, a million different cheeses. my favorite was this _queso blanco con chiles verdes_ —"

keith can imagine it vividly. his stomach cramps painfully.

"shut up," snarls keith, sharp and vehement. he has already eaten his share and lance's tangent makes him more aware of his increasing appetite. "just. stop talking."

"o-kay?" lance drawls, his eyebrows furrowed. "i mean, i know the rations don't taste the best, but—"

keith's stomach growls so loudly lance shuts his mouth with a surprised click.

"i need more water," keith mutters as he gets to his feet. he grabs the portable purifier from their supplies, a small stack of essentials piled beneath a bright blue square of tarp. "that—that'll help."

the ' _it has to work_ ' remains unspoken. neither of them know where they are nor do they know how long they will be here, so they must be careful with their resources. they can survive for weeks off what they have, but the small bricks of essential nutrients keith devours are not enough to satisfy the void in his stomach. he drinks the water they gather from a nearby cenote to ease the hollow scrape—and to slake his constant thirst—but the emptiness below his ribcage becomes all keith can think about.

it also does not help that the tree they're camped beneath is flush with crimson, fist-sized berries.

"we should try the fruit," keith murmurs during the hottest part of the day, when all three suns blaze in the sky and the shadows become shallow and incomplete. "it would help."

next to him, lance snorts. "yeah," he replies sarcastically. "let's try the weird alien fruit that we know nothing about. you're already sick—why not test your immune system with a little food poisoning, too?"

"not sick," keith protests automatically. lance snorts again. "and—what do we do when we run out of food? what's the difference if we eat the fruit now instead of later?"

"being dead now or later," lance snaps. "besides, we're not gonna run out of food. we have enough for a couple months." lance shifts. "not that it will take that long since allura can like, pinpoint our location. we just have to—wait, i guess. be patient."

it is too hot to argue— _again_ —about the many variables present in their situation, so keith merely huffs and leans more heavily against the gigantic tree they're camped beneath. the plated bark scratches the bare skin of keith's back but the discomfort is less than resting in the heavy sunlight would be. above them, a breeze whispers through the broad, obovate leaves, bright flashes of cerulean interrupted with crimson.

_patience,_ keith thinks as lance begins to snore softly. _patience._

.

when lance sleeps—deeply, heavily—keith watches the steady rise and fall of his narrow chest.

_how does he do it?_ keith wonders. _how can he just… fall asleep like that?_

keith is vaguely envious because, no matter how exhausted his body or leaden his limbs, the unrelenting heat and variations of sunlight make it difficult for him to slip into unconsciouness. he wants to be able to give in like lance—wants to sleep the heat and the hunger away—yet every effort is futile. keith's restlessness refuses to leave him.

_there is an upside, i guess._ keith's stare takes in the twitch beneath lance's eyelids and the gently parted damp of lance's mouth. _it's easier to sneak away when he's sleeping._

lance exhales, a breath on the edge of a snore.

"idiot," keith murmurs. he gathers the last of his strength, stands, and goes to put on his spacesuit for the first time in a week. it sticks uncomfortably to his sweat-tacky body; the suit was built to combat the void of deep space, not the unrelenting heat of an eternal day. for a moment, it is unbearable. keith wants to tear out of the spacesuit and strip down to his naked skin and sit in the shade with lance, listen to his snores and watch his lean chest and his soft mouth and—

keith shakes his head. it feels like it's filled with syrup. he shakes it again. then, when the expanding emptiness of hunger in his stomach overrides the strange sensation in his head, keith walks away.

he does not look back.

.

it takes several minutes for keith to walk to the other side of the immense trunk of their shelter. it is thick enough to hide not only the camp from keith's sight, but also his lion and lance's larger one. keith doesn't think any tree on earth can compare to this one. it is at least a thousand feet tall; the leaves are as big as an umbrella; and the overripe berries that drop to the ground are the size of baseballs.

keith knows he shouldn't. despite his dramatics and over-reactions, lance is not dumb. his concerns about eating the fruit are serious and valid. the berries could be toxic and kill keith—but keith's hunger consumes him. after a week—two weeks?—of eating nothing but scant rations, of drinking water until he feels bloated, keith is desperate.

once keith is on the opposite side of the tree, he turns his jet pack on and flies up to one of the thicker branches. they are as wide as semi-trucks towards the trunk and a narrow as a pencil as they taper outwards. all the leaves are unfurled; their flat faces soak in the life-giving radiation from the three suns and shield the fruit growing below.

keith's hands tremble as he picks one.

the fruit is strange. like an orange, it is round and heavy with water, yet like a plum, the crimson skin is thin and delicate. keith presses his thumb into the fruit to test its ripeness; it has more give than he expects. it smells mostly familiar—fresh and sucrose sweet—yet there is something undeniably odd and alien about it as well. keith cannot describe it. 

keith spends several minutes turning the picked berry over and over in his gloved hands while lance's caution replays in his head. a small worm of fear wriggles into the hollow of his stomach. what if lance is right? what if the fruit is toxic? the fruit could make him nauseous; could make him vomit what little food is in his stomach; could render him catatonic; could kill him.

_or,_ a small voice whispers inside his head. _it could end the hunger._

keith's thoughts grind to a halt. his stomach is a deep and cavernous maw that demands all his attention. he does not believe he has ever been so hungry. it baffles him. he knows, logically, that the divided rations should be enough to sustain him comfortably for weeks; he also knows that he has gone longer stretches without food at all—living in the desert had been hard, after the kerberos disaster and being booted from the garrison—but he does not remember feeling so… _empty_.

"fuck it," keith murmurs, and bites.

.

"the _fuck_ , keith!" lance screeches when he wakes. "the absolute _fuck_!"

there is a pile of fruit in front of keith and a half eaten fruit in his hand. crimson stains his mouth and fingertips; the juice isn't potent, but keith has already eaten a half dozen. his belly feels full for the first time since he and lance were separated from the rest of the team.

"s'good," keith slurs. he proffers one of the fist-sized fruits. "wanna try?"

"do i wanna—?" lance cuts himself off, his face red and his arms spread wide as he gesticulates wildly. "keith, we have no idea where we are, let alone what those are, let alone if they're _edible_ and— _dios mio_ , do you even stop to fucking _think_ about what you're doing or do you just—keith, _stop fucking eating that_!"

lance smacks the fruit out of keith's hand. it lands on the ground with a wet plop.

"hey!" keith exclaims. "that was mine!"

"that was—!" lance flings his arms and gaze heavenward. "you know what? i don't even—i don't even care. just—if you die—"

"i'm not gonna die," keith interjects. "don't be so dramatic."

lance releases a wordless cry of frustration. for a moment, it seems as though he would like to strangle keith with his bare hands; instead, lance balls his twitching hands into fists and pulls them down to his sides.

"fine," lance spits. "be an idiot. but if you die, i will say i told you so."

lance storms off before keith can point out his flawed logic. keith does not follow him; instead, he shrugs, picks another fruit up from the small pyramid in front of him, and eats until it hurts.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> voltron blog [@shmidgen](http://shmidgen.tumblr.com). come follow me~
> 
> ps - the planet keith and lance are stranded on was based off [this real life finding](https://www.eso.org/public/news/eso1624/)


	2. Chapter 2

after keith has eaten his fill, he piles the remaining berries onto a small square of spare tarp, secures the ends in a knot, and stores it with the rest of the supplies. he hopes the food keeps; there isn't a lot of fuel left in his jet pack, and the lowest hanging branch of the tree is at least one hundred feet above the ground.

_wonder how much lance has,_ keith thinks as he returns to the shade of camp. then he remembers how often lance fools around and peevishly amends, _probably not a lot._

keith lies down and spreads out on one of the emergency blankets beneath the tree. he does not know which one is his anymore; the thin, silver blankets are dirty, dimmed by use and dust, but neither keith nor lance has found the motivation to carry them to the cenote and wash them. still, dirty or not, the blankets are better than the ground, and keith barely notices the uneven hardness beneath his back. his limbs feel pleasantly heavy. his head is fuzzy. his stomach strains beneath the rising arch of his ribs yet instead of feeling bloated, he feels satisfied. all that matters is that he is full; he is still hot and inexplicably _ready_ , but he is also finally and fully sated.

with a content sigh, keith closes his eyes against the glittering light that passes through the wind-rocked leaves above. the nameless planet they are stranded on has three suns. right now, all three shine bright in the sky.

the first sun is an enormous, blue-white star that bathes everything in a clear and crisp light. the second and third suns are a binary system, a yellow star orbited by a white dwarf that winks in and out of visibility. the first sun is ever-present—it perpetually lingers halfway to its crest in the sky—while the binary system rises and falls on the horizon.

keith knows there must be a pattern but he cannot figure it out. it feels impossible to understand when all he can focus on is the heat prickling his skin, the desiccating thirst in his throat, and the scratch of hunger in his belly. all keith knows is the degrees of eternal day. it is lance who keeps track of time; lance who doles out rations and ibuprofen; lance who knows exactly how long they've been stranded.

if he wanted, keith could ask. a part of him is curious—he estimates that they've been stranded for about ten days—but something small and tight and fearful stops him. what if he's underestimated how long he and lance have been on this planet? what if he _overestimated_?

it's easier to be ignorant, keith asserts. easier to focus on his strange symptoms, easier to ignore the lack of night, easier to succumb to the tiredness that weighs down his limbs. so instead of puzzling out the correlation between the number of suns in the sky and lance's alarm, keith sleeps.

and sleeps.

and sleeps.

.

when keith wakes, lance has returned.

"hey," keith murmurs as he sits up. his eyelids are tacky and his mouth is dry. he grinds the heel of his palm against his eyes in an attempt to dispel the grogginess that clings to him.

"hey," lance says back. he is sitting down with his long legs criss-crossed, his hands planted on his bony knees, and his elbows pointed out. he is close—less than an arm's length away—and bent forward, his sharp chin angled and his blue eyes narrowed.

"what—"

"you're not dead," lance interrupts.

"why would i—"

"are you sick?" lance cuts keith off again. "do you feel nauseous? light-headed? dumber than usual?"

"i don't—"

"weak? dizzy?" each rapid word is a bullet shot from the gun of lance's mouth. "do you have abdominal pain? cramps? you already have space flu so your fever is out—"

"lance—"

"what about diarrhea? are you—"

"lance!" keith shouts, grabbing lance's forearm and _squeezing_. "shut up!"

lance closes his mouth. opens it. then he closes it again; the muscle of his jaw jumps with tension. keith waits a few seconds to see if lance will stay quiet or if he'll explode back into his tirade.

he doesn't.

"okay," keith murmurs, gently surprised by lance's silence. "good."

keith loosens his grip on lance's forearm, pausing briefly. lance's skin is cool compared to his own, an unexpected but pleasant revelation. he wonders if lance's entire body would feel the same if keith laid him down on the blanket and pressed their bodies together.

_wait,_ keith thinks as he shoves the vivd image out of his mind. he wrenches his hand back and—half-panicked—balls it into a fist. _wait._

"keith?" lance says, voice tinged with worry. "are you okay?"

"yeah." keith shakes his head to dispel some fogginess. "i'm not dying, i just—" he shakes his head again. "how long was i asleep?"

lance squints at keith—assesses him—before he sits back and relaxes his posture. "i dunno," he answers. "i was gone for a few hours."

"oh." keith had finished eating not long after lance had stormed off. he wonders if his tiredness is due to the excess boredom of being stranded, a biological reaction to the unending heat, or another unexplainable symptom of his not-fever. he wonders if it is a combination of all three.

"yeah," lance mocks. " _oh_."

"you were gone that long?"

"if i had come back earlier i would have punched you." lance shrugs. "i mean—i low key always want to punch you—but this time, i almost actually did it. eating that fruit—it was stupid, keith. real fucking stupid."

lance's face is serious and, despite the weeks they spent together, it is not an expression keith is familiar with. the deep furrow of his eyebrows and the stern slant of his mouth make lance look oddly vulnerable.

"i'm sorry," keith blurts, the apology ripped from him like reflex. his insides twist into a heavy, guilty knot and he does not like it. "i'm sorry for the fruit. for all of it. i just—i had a feeling."

keith knows he is blunt. he has never had a way with words—never had the patience for them—and his honesty sounds exactly the way he feared it would: simple and baseless.

"a feeling?" parrots lance. " _a feeling_?"

lance's wide eyes are as blue as the cerulean leaves above; it is overwhelming. keith bites his lip and, unable to meet lance's stare, averts his gaze. he wants to explain—wants to wipe the look of incredulity from lance's face—but he has already said all he can about why he did what he did. no words can describe it. the desire to say more, to ramble uselessly, rises in his throat.

this is, of course, when lance begins to laugh.

it starts small. a puff of air, more amused than annoyed, slips past lance's lips. a second passes before another huff follows, larger and louder. after several of those, giggles erupt; they spill out like bubbles. finally, laughter comes, an unattractive string of wheezes and snorts.

"i—i hate—you!" lance exclaims between breaths. his face is red and his arms are wrapped tight around his flat abdomen, as though to suppress his spasming diaphragm. "i thought—you were—gonna—die!"

confused, keith can only watch as lance struggles through his fit of laughter. he is unsure of how to react. should he—once again—reassure lance that he is alive and well? should he comment on how ridiculous lance looks? or should he put his hand on lance's trembling shoulder and—

_nope,_ keith thinks, digging his nails into the flesh of his palms. _not going there._

eventually, the need for air overpowers lance's hysteria, and his laughter turns into a harsh series of torso-rattling coughs. this provides keith with an outlet; he gets up, walks over to their supplies, and grabs their last, stainless steel flask of water. then he walks back over, unscrews the cap, and hands it to lance, who takes it gratefully. lance chokes through several swallows before his throat works properly.

"forget the fruit," lance gasps when he pulls away. "forget the space flu. if anything is gonna kill me out here, it's gonna be you."

.

to keep track of the time, lance sets an alarm on his handheld comm that goes off every eight earth hours. it is loud enough to wake them if they are sleeping and loud enough to be heard across a small distance, though the latter matters little since lance always has it within reach. once the the device is in his hand, he immediately restarts the countdown.

sometimes, keith wonders about lance's obsession with the alarm. the responsibility of it—of knowing how long they have been stranded—would drive keith insane.

"lunchtime!" lance announces as the alarm begins to blare. he gets to his feet and nudges keith in the thigh with his big toe. "c'mon, sicky, let's eat."

keith knocks lance's bare foot away. "m'not sick," he protests. "just—"

"yeah, yeah, yeah." lance dismisses the words with a flapping wave of his hand. "and the sky isn't blue. i know."

keith looks pointedly upwards at the cloud-studded, pale lavender sky. lance's gaze follows and, upon realization, turns into a scowl.

"on earth," lance clarifies as he jabs his toe into keith's thigh a second time. "don't be a pedantic asshole, keith, it doesn't work with your mullet."

before keith can ask lance exactly what he means by that, lance walks away, his narrow hips swinging. the motion draws attention to the tight boxer-briefs he wears; like keith, he has stripped down to virtually nothing to combat the oppressive, muggy heat. yet while keith wears the same—the underwear was part of their uniform, along with the biosuit, boots, and paladin armor—the black material seems to cut lower on lance's sharp pelvis and higher on his lean thighs. he is thin—skin and muscle stretched thin over his bones by the trials of adolescence—but his nakedness exposes the truth of his broad shoulders, his slender waist, and his long legs.

lance looks… good.

_shit,_ keith curses inwardly as he gets to his unsteady feet. his brain feels fuzzy again; he squeezes his eyes shut and sways. _not now._

keith has been aware of his attraction since the moment lance swaggered into his life. before, it has been easy to ignore; between lance's off-putting attitude and the sheer magnitutde of the mission fate has given them, keith has been able to avoid his unexpected interest. it is harder, now, to push away the heavy and visceral want that blindsides him.

"need help?" lance calls from over by the supplies. "i wouldn't want to deny assistance to the weak or infirm."

keith raises his fist and his middle finger. at the rude gesture, lance cackles, loud and bright. it gives keith a moment to compose himself; to inhale deeply; to exhale slowly; to temper the coil of heat low in his belly. it feels like the heat that plagued him after they crash landed, concentrated but identical. he adamantly refuses to contemplate the implications, and marches over.

"alright," lance says merrily as he opens the box containing their food. he pulls out two bars and the pack of analgesics. he pops a couple of pills from the sheet and sets them in the palm of keith's outstretched hand. "that's a full course for each of us, and an appetizer for you. bon appétit!"

keith swallows the pills dry—an unpleasant sensation, but not uncomfortable—and then accepts the supplement. despite being bland and chalky, and despite having over-eaten only hours before, keith consumes the bar in four enormous bites.

"jesus, keith," lance exclaims, his eyebrows at his hairline. "did you even taste it?"

"it's tasteless."

"yeah, i _know_ that, i was just—hey, what are you—?"

keith takes the fruit he stored down and unties the tarp. one of the berries attempts to escape, but keith catches it before it falls to the ground. he pauses for a moment, unsure, then holds it out proferringly.

"wanna try?" keith asks, unintentionally repeating the words he said hours earlier, before lance yelled at him for his recklessness and stormed off.

lance's eyes are wide. his gaze flickers between the round, red fruit in keith's hand and keith's face; his indecision is obvious. he is clearly torn between want and caution. logic should dictate that, since keith is fine, the fruit is safe to eat; lance's imagination, however, runs rampant and wild with a host of incresingly terrifying possibilities.

"lance." keith extends the fruit out further. "take it."

lance takes it.

"this is so stupid," lance mutters as he turns the crimson berry over and over in his hands. his long fingers press into the flesh to test the ripeness. "i can't believe this."

then—with a deep and audible inhale—lance brings the fruit to his mouth, and sinks his teeth in. red juice pools in the corners of his mouth and keith watches, affixed, as the excess liquid runs down lance's chin.

"s'good!" lance says around a pulpy mouthful. "s'like… a cherry? or like a… raspberry? kinda?"

keith does not respond, eyes affixed to the damp sheen of lance's mouth.

"wait, no." lance chews contemplatively. "it's like… a pineapple? yeah, like—i mean, it doesn't _taste_ like a pineapple, it just—it's a little sour. bites back, y'know?"

"no," keith says dumbly.

"a pineapple," lance repeats. the red is vibrant against his skin. "it like, has an enzyme that breaks down protein, so when you, like, eat it, it eats you back."

lance takes another bite and hums, a small and pleasurable sound that vibrates in the back of his throat. more juice stains his lips and fingertips. keith wants—suddenly and viciously—to lean forward and lick into lance's mouth.

_wait._ screaming static fills his brain and makes it hard to think. _no. that's not—_

"hmm?" lance looks up. his eyelashes are long and dark, and shadow his blue irises. "not what?"

"nothing." keith turns away from lance's stare. "nevermind. i need—" his eyes catch on the portable purifer. "water." he clears his throat. "i need water."

"o-kay?"

"i'm thirsty," says keith.

lance's head tilts sideways and his brow furrows. "you're a little pink," he states slowly. "you're not dehydrated, are you? do you need me to come with—"

"no!" keith interrupts. lance startles. keith rakes a hand through his hair; he knows he's acting strange but, when he tries to smile, it comes out as a grimace. "i mean—no, i can get it. you—uhh—you finish your lunch."

"su-ure," lance drawls. "i can do that."

keith does not know why lance agrees to stay behind so easily—he looks vaguely suspicious—but he isn't going to question it. so he nods, grabs the purifier and several empty flasks, and flees into the alien jungle.

.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on my voltrash blog, [@pratktcven](http://pratktcven.tumblr.com/about)


End file.
